


to you.

by Mercia



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 23rd of December is Wanda's and Pietro's Birthday, Angst, Birthday, Character Study, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Jewish Character, Jewish Wanda Maximoff, Loss of a twin, Maximoff Twin Feels, Minor Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson, Pietro Maximoff Feels, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Prompt Fill, Team Feels, Team as Family, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Twins, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 08:54:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17118254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercia/pseuds/Mercia
Summary: It's Wanda's birthday today. She's not sure how to feel.(Prompt: snow and coffee)





	to you.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhh here's some feels about Wanda and Pietro and yea. Also sorry to vision fans but he's not in this one. Cos. Thanks to my beta @fine-i-give-in as always! <3

 

It's been a long time since Wanda has last seen snow. When was it? Maybe when she was fifteen? Sixteen? The last winter before... everything, probably. She can't really remember; it was a long time ago, after all.  
  
New York under snow is beautiful, in that busy, buzzing, could-be-on-a-Christmas-card kind of way; exactly how she's seen it in those cheesy Christmas movies. The Big Apple doesn't disappoint after all, she supposes. The window has frosted up around the edges, and the snowflakes, whirling wildly into the glass, make her feel like she's enclosed in some sort of reverse snowglobe.  
  
Like the one Pietro bought her for their birthday, years ago. The sudden memory of it makes her smile, a small warmth spreading into her cheeks. She hasn't thought about that little snowglobe in a long time, but she remembers she'd saved up enough of her own pocket money for three months, and had bought Pietro a hockey stick (because he'd been into ice hockey at the time,) and Pietro had bought her this precious little snowglobe.  
  
It was a very fancy snow globe, she remembers. A little scratched, because Pietro had bought it at an antiques shop, but that just made it all the more charming. Mama had thought he’d gone and stolen it, at first. The base was made of a dark brown wood, carved into a hexagon, and engraved with the names of the makers, Wanda assumes. She can't remember the names now. Inside there was a miniature scene which was a frozen over lake, the starts of a forest, and some horses. It had been the most beautiful thing she owned.  
  
She hasn't thought about it since their parents.  
  
The noise of the kettle startles her back, and the door swings open at the same time, and a bleary-eyed Clint is making his way into the kitchen, still wearing his plaid pyjamas and the falcon robe Sam got him a few months back.  
  
"Morning," he says, not looking at her but rubbing his face into his palms, and then stops short. Turns. Squints at her. "It's 6:30. And Sunday. What're you doing up?" he says, eyes darting back and forth between Wanda and the clock, as if Sunday-plus-6:30-plus-Millenial is a concept which doesn't compute in his brain.  
  
Wanda doesn't bother to hide her snicker. "I wasn't tired," she replies simply, shrugging. "Now, do you want coffee or not?"  
  
"Please," he says, taking a seat at one of the counter stools, and then, "So how are you not tired? And don't say magic, because - A - those tricks you pulled yesterday against Doom were insane, and - B - that's cheating."  
  
It takes a few minutes for the coffee to brew (because Stark uses "real beans not shitty fake instant kind"),Wanda drums her fingernails on the counter as they wait. "Magic," she quips finally, after a pause and a smirk.  
  
"Oh, come on."  
  
"So why are you up so early, as you say, then?"  
  
"Family," he replies, picking at some of the loose threads on his sleeve. "Last minute Christmas shopping for the kids and Laura, and then I've gotta head out at around four to get back home before Christmas Eve. We take Christmas very seriously in the Barton household."  
  
Wanda smiles. "That will be nice."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
The coffee is done, probably. She could always make it instantly with her magic, but she likes doing it normally once in a while. Sometimes, it's nice to just slow down. The kitchen is filled with the rich, bitter scent as she pours the coffee into their mugs. Clint takes his coffee, she knows by now, with lots and lots of sugar, and a dash of cream. Wanda takes hers with milk.  
  
"Cheers," says Clint, taking his mug and clinking it with hers, and they sip in silence.  
  
For a moment, Wanda thinks it'll stay that way. It's nice, the companionable silence, and she leans back against the counter and takes to watching the snow again, coffee warming through her. It's gotten heavier, somehow, and the childish part of her wants to go outside and play and make a fort and a snowman on the roof, and maybe convince one of the other Avengers to a snowball fight. Except maybe Tony. Knowing him, he'd create some sort of snowball launching mechanism which would blow them all up, and she can't help but be amused at the thought.  
  
Once, Pietro had made a bucket “ _snow-castle_ ”. "It's not like we live anywhere close to a beach and snow is close enough to sand. Anyway, I think it looks quite good," was what he had said.  
  
And he'd been right. It did look quite good. And had lasted an entire week and a half before melting. Wanda had dug a moat around it, and filled it with water so it would freeze-over overnight, and they'd even stuck a little crayon-coloured flag in it.  
  
"Got any plans for Christmas?" says Clint, eventually, quickly downing the rest of his coffee and heading to the sink to wash up. Wanda's only halfway through hers.  
  
She hums, gently blowing on the steam rising from her mug so it forms little spirals in the air. "No. I don't celebrate Christmas. I'm Jewish," she explains.  
  
"Huh," says Clint, without much of a pause. "Happy Hanukkah, then?" he tries, and rummages into one of the cupboards, comes back holding out a cookie.  
  
"That was, like, two weeks ago, Clint," and she rolls eyes, shaking her head. "But I will accept your store-bought cookie."  
  
"Hey! There's nothing wrong with store-bought."  
  
"No," she allows and takes a bite of the cookie. "No, I guess there isn't."  
  
It tastes vaguely of cardboard and the plastic packaging; but it’s still sweet, crunchy, and there are little chocolate chips - so they're fine enough.  


* * *

  
She brings her drink with her up to the roof, when the snow dies down. It's some sort of holiday-themed latte from Starbucks, because Sam and Steve decided to be generous after their morning run, and picked up an assortment of coffees for the whole team (which is very predictable of them - both the generosity and the five-AM-running-even-in-late-December.) It's much too sweet for Wanda's tastes, to be honest. Pietro might've liked it.  
  
It's around eight, now. Wanda's dressed warmly in thermal leggings, a thick cable-knit jumper, one of those brightly coloured puffy coats, and gloves, a hat, and a scarf. She doesn't really need to dress up so warmly, not with her powers and all, but she finds it kind of comforting, for some reason. It's the principle of the matter. Even though the snow has stopped, it was snowing all through last night too, and pretty heavily, so it's blanketed the ground thickly, about a foot and a half. The sky is blue and the sun is out again, beaming down onto the bright white of the snow and making it glow, almost.  
  
Wanda sets to work right away.  
  
It's hard labour at first, the snow is that fine, powdery sort of snow which is hard to pack together, but she gets there. She's never done it alone before, but tradition is tradition (or at least it used to be.) Besides, today is the day where she refuses to use her magic at all (unless it's an Avengers kind of emergency,) and JARVIS has helpfully provided her with the tools she needs: a bucket and a spade, all very sophisticated. The first two layers take about an hour of snowy labour to build, but it feels good to build it herself, by hand.  
  
Every once in a while, she'll stop and take a gulp of her latte, which gets cold very quickly from the chill in the air. Wanda doesn't mind it, though.  
  
The two of them, Pietro and her, had always preferred the cold to the heat, which kind of makes sense seeing as they were winter babies. Not that there's any sort of scientific backing to that, but by now she's long known that the difference between old wives' tales and scientific phenomenon are more blurred than they appear. Anyway, when they were younger (like much, much younger - like six or seven,) they'd play this pretend game.  
  
It's pretty funny, looking back. They didn't even have a garden, but there was a path behind the primary school they went to, which nobody really walked down in the holidays. So they'd pretend the bare hedges and the crumbling walls of Pokojný, buried under thick layers of snow, were the beginnings of a forest. They'd be the snow children, born out of love made tangible during the coldest of winters - like Snegurochka in that tale Papa would tell them when he was home and it had been particularly snowy at night. Except they wouldn't die at the end, they'd become the spirits of Winter together and live forever to guide lost travellers out if the snowy forests, or look after the many woodland creatures during the cold.  
  
Forever immortal until Mama would call them back inside, tell them to strip out of their wet, freezing clothes, and change into their woollen pajamas and give them each a mug of hot apple tea, the mellow spice warming them up in minutes from within.  
  
Because the latte from Starbucks (which Steve chose, allegedly, therefore no one can blame Sam for bad taste) is much too sweet, Wanda takes it in tiny sips at long intervals and it takes ages to finish. They've put some sort of vanilla-and-something-else syrup in it, and it's cloying on her throat. It's not bad, per se, but it's not like she can down it just like that. Plus, it's worse after it's cooled down.  
  
Which is why, when she's finally built the main foundation and the walls go up just about her waist, after all her painstaking work, she manages to spill the latte, leaving an ugly stain into the pillow white snow that seeps into it in seconds. It's mainly Steve's fault, actually.  
  
He comes stomping up, in his brown leather Captain America boots, of all things. So disruptive.  
  
"What do you want, Steve?" says Wanda, exasperated, from behind the wall of snow she's currently fortifying.  
  
"Whoa, did you make this?" he says, sounding excited. Wanda smiles.  
  
"Of course," she replies, stepping out from behind the snow and very deliberately rolling her eyes. "Who else, there's nobody here but me."  
  
Steve splutters wirelessly for a moment before, "Well, yes. I know, but did you-"  
  
"No magic," and she shakes her head.  
  
"Right. This is amazing, though. Must've taken you ages. Are you almost finished?"  
  
"Nope," she responds, popping the 'p'. "Not even close, Steve." And she doesnt mean to be rude, but in her defence, he was rude first. "Did you need anything? Because you made me spill that shitty latte you chose on the snow. Now it looks dirty," she continues, pointing to the smudge of marred snow with a look of slight disdain.  
  
And she really shouldn't tease him like this. The poor man actually looks sorry.  
  
"Ah, yeah," he says, scratching his neck sheepishly. "Sorry about that. Anyway, do you want to come down for a bit. It's-" He checks his wrist,"--about half past twelve. Sam's made these bean burgers and sweet potato fries. Smells amazing. And you could probably do with a break, right?"  
  
Steve is the type of person who rambles a lot, she figures, which makes sense considering it used to take a lot more for him to be heard. When he makes his great Captain America speeches, he knows which words matter, almost instinctively, because he's always had to make them count. But when it's just him, in his sweatpants and hoodie with a teammate, he rambles to fill the silence as though he forgets that other people won't forget his presence if he stops.  
  
Wanda pauses for a moment, considering. She is hungry actually. She hasn't eaten yet. And if she eats quickly, she can get back to it before the snow inevitably starts again.  
  
"All right," she smiles. "That sounds good."  


* * *

  
Sam is a very good cook, as it turns out. Wanda and him don't have quite the same culinary tastes, but his food feels comforting and satisfying and makes her feel a little more at home, which is what she wants in food. The bean burgers are something she's never tried before, and they're delicious - which is rather unsurprising since they smell so good (Steve wasn't lying, but then, when is he ever?) It's definitely not the same as the Shakshuka Mama and Papa used to make for days like today, or even the cheap, takeaway ones her and Pietro used to spend their pennies on, after, but Sam makes it with a kind, genuine smile on his face.  
  
New York is a little noisier than it was this morning when she looked out of it, but it is never really quiet, whatever the weather: rain, or hail, or snow. But it's Sunday at noon, and she knows in America that often means people will be milling about in their Sunday best for church. And then tomorrow too, probably, and the day after, for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. No doubt Steve and probably Sam will be planning on going, even if they've seen Thor in all his glory already.  
  
But then, so has she, and she still prays. Faith is like that, she supposes.  
  
Wanda switches the kettle on, and jumps onto the counter to wait, plate on her lap, swinging her snow-sodden boots back and forth carelessly. Tony has, actually, supplied all the kitchens with hot water taps, but she likes the waiting and listening to the water bubble and steam as it boils.  
  
"How is it?" asks Sam, crossing his arms and leaning back against the fridge, looking at her expectantly. "Good?"  
  
"Mmhmm," she hums, taking another bite. "Excellent."  
  
"Thanks. My momma used to make it for me and my sister after school all the time," he replies.  
  
"You have a sister?"  
  
"Yep, she's about two and a half years older than me — Sarah."  
  
The kettle clicks, and she hears the gasp of the water, so she takes finishes the last few bites (she's always been a quick eater - she's had to be) and hops off the counter, wiping her mouth in her sleeve.  
  
"Coffee?" She offers the two of them, reaching for the cupboard to pull out the box of tea bags, some allspice, honey and opening the fridge and pulls out some apple juice.  
  
"What are you making?" Steve asks, instead of replying.  
  
"Apple tea," she says. " We used to make it back at home. Would you like to try?"  
  
Both of them agree, so Wanda sets about to making it. A teabag of black tea in each mug, a pinch of allspice, brewing for a few minutes in three fourths hot water and a quarter apple juice. The smell of it is a subtle kind of sweetness, from the apples, and the hearty depth coming from the tea and the allspice. As a child she would always add too much apple juice and honey and not enough spice. Pietro would laugh at her and call her a little kid. And they were, weren't they?  
  
She takes to adding half a teaspoon of honey for each of them, it's how she likes her own nowadays, and they can always add more if they want. The honey that they have in the Tower is much richer, more luxurious than the cheap squeezy type she used to have, tastes more natural and apparently she should be able to tell what kind of flowers the bees that made it found their pollen. Pietro would have called it fancy, and it's the type of thing they would have saved up to buy Mama on her birthday.  
  
"Hey, have you seen what Wanda was making on the roof, earlier?" Says Steve, suddenly excited.  
  
"I was making a shelter," Wanda explains to Sam, taking a sip of her tea. "Out of snow."  
  
"That's awesome," replies Sam, "Can we come up to see it once you're done?"  
  
Wanda shrugs, "Of course."  
  
It doesn't feel weird to be drinking apple tea with Sam and Steve like she thought it might. It shouldn't be surprising, since she's always been taught that things that make you happy should be shared. Apple tea isn't anything new or original, anyways, plenty of people drink it; but it's just something that she's not used to sharing with anyone other than family, or maybe some of their school friends that used to come over when she was little.  
  
Both of them seem to be enjoying their drinks and Wanda smiles. Steve is staring out the window, looking out into the snow buried city looking lost in thought. There's a wistful expression on his face and Wanda doesn't need any mind reading powers to tell what he's thinking about.  
  
"Don't you have the afternoon mass to go to?"  Wanda finds herself saying, turning towards the sink to wash up.  
  
"Starts at two," says Sam, not in a rush, hands still clasped around his mug. "Takes about half an hour to walk there. We have time."  
  
It seems to startle Steve out of his reverie, the conversation, and he smiles up at them.  
  
"Bucky's Ma used to make this for us as kids," he says suddenly. "Weren't ever allowed to play in the snow, though. The cold was my kryptonite, as were most other things," he adds as an afterthought.  
  
Wanda leaves them, pulling her coat on, so she can get back to her building before the snow potentially starts up again, because she can see a few more grey clouds than earlier. She makes herself a flask of hot apple tea to bring up with her, and some more for Sam and Steve to take with them, before they get dressed properly to leave for the service.  
  
"You'll be back around half four, yes? I'll probably be finished by then," she tells them, pulling on her gloves.  
  
"Looking forward to it," Sam replies.  
  
She likes seeing the two of them together. They're both so, so kind and generous and honest. Plus, it's fun watching the two of them make eyes at each other, oblivious of the other party's equally longing stares. She, Natasha, and Clint have a bet running about who'll get themselves together enough first. Clint says Steve, she thinks Sam, and Natasha thinks - somehow, with an ever knowing smirk - they'll pull through at the same time. It would make for a funny scene, certainly.  
  
"Make sure Steve doesn't bring back any more of that silly coffee," she calls as the elevator doors are sliding shut.  
  
Sam chuckles and nods, at the same time Steve cries "Hey!" indignantly.  
  
When she gets outside, Wanda places her flask of apple tea down in the snow, next to where the spilled latte mark is, and it seems a little colder than before.  
  


* * *

  
Wanda finishes just as it starts snowing again.

For a while, she just sits there, watching the snowfall around her, the chill of the wind hitting her wildly as it picks back up from this morning.

It's not anything special. Not any sort of elaborate, amazing feat of frosty architecture, but it's enough for a child's mind to imagine an Ice Queen's castle, perhaps, or a hidden cottage in the woods as a refuge through the winter, or a snowy labyrinth to trap two young explorers into the clutches of a witch.

Besides, it's the best she can do with only one pair of hands (instead of two) and magic hands that refuse to use their magic.

It still feels like magic, weirdly. Even though it's just mounds of snow over her head.

The sky is dark already, and she's pretty sure it's not even five yet. But winter is just like that. The days are short. It's a relief, kind of.

Wanda flips her hood up over her head, and then lies back into the snow, letting herself relax, her eyes scanning over her work from the inside, taking it in. It's a sort of rounded dome, like an igloo, but one side isn't rounded, so it's more like a semi-circle, and there's a tunnel for an opening, and a small opening at top too, like a skylight (But only because she and Pietro never quite figured out how to fill in the very top without the snow falling in.) The walls are bumpy and uneven, one of the corners are crumbling in a little. Wanda lies back into the snow, with her face under the opening at the top, watching the snow spiralling towards her, little white flakes melting on her cheeks or landing like ash in her hair.

They used to do that, when they no longer had Mama or Papa to tell them to come back inside, the two of them am would squeeze into their self-made, free sanctuary, and lie there with their faces turned up towards the sky. They'd stick their tongues out and try to catch the little white flakes as they'd fall, whirling, out of the sky.

The specks of white tumbling out of the sky, inconsequential against the wind remind her, always has reminded her, or stars. As though stars are really just specks of glitter stuck to the midnight, opaque, dome of the sky, enclosing around them, and the snow is just them falling, finally free to land. Starstuff, descending softly from above so she and Pietro could wish upon them as they shivered and the snow reached their tongues and pink, cold bitten cheeks, and both of them would pretend that they weren't frozen stiff, because it was nicer to just lay there.

It was easy, then, to just look up at the night-sky as it fell on them, and just pretend they were not in the dark path behind school, and that it was just them, in a shelter, before the unknowable, infinite void yawning beyond them, and that maybe if they reached out, they could touch it.

Or now, when she looks up, and maybe she can pretend she is not on the Tower roof, in New York City, _America,_ as beautiful as it is; instead, nothing has changed and they are still in Sokovia and they are pretending nothing exists except from the stars falling gently around them.

The sky is the same, after all.

But the texture of the snow is different, under her. Dry, almost, more powdery, doesn't hold together as well.

And New York is never not noisy, even over ninety stories up, above the bustle of it all.

Everything is always fast, here. Pietro would have loved it.

There is the occasional wailing drone of sirens, cars honking at each other, the occasional shouts of people. It's chaos, every bit of it.

It's different from the chaos of Sokovia - that _was_ Sokovia - though.

Everyone is in a rush here, running all over the place and over themselves blindly, and in all different direction.

In Sokovia, the chaos would come in bursts of loud, destructive rage, single minded and angry; and in between, bouts of long, dreadful, fearful quiet and forced normalcy.

It was then, usually, looking up at the dark and the stardust falling around them, that Pietro would tug his hand from hers, where they were holding them, and reach into his pockets and fish out whatever it was he'd been able to scrape together this year. And Wanda would do the same. Sometimes it was simply a pack of fancy toffee for Wanda, and a pack of cheap colouring pencils for Pietro. Or maybe it would be two new pair of socks, and some expensive chocolates, those ones which were only a bite each but had different fillings of maybe caramel or coffee.

The snow starts to fall heavier, in fat flakes which are denser. Her clothes are soaked through and cold now, and she can't feel her fingers or toes or her nose.

Her breath rises frosty in the air and Wanda suddenly feels so very content to just settle here forever, laying still in their shelter looking out of the little opening as the snow buries her.

A sharp laugh escapes her lips, swallowed by the wind dancing madly around their shelter.

They'd been alive, was all, for another whole year. And they'd been able to celebrate.

* * *

 

It's Tony, actually, who finds her out on the roof still in the shelter. He comes out whistling, with a cigarette smoking between two fingers.

She's still staring up to the sky, and it's still snowing, when she hears the footsteps shuffling through the drifts of snow, and a quiet, “What the fuck.” And then, suddenly his head is peeking through the little entrance tunnel of the shelter and Wanda flinches.

“Get out,” she says.

She's still gazing into the nothingness, a light coat of snow over her.

“Wha-” Tony starts, then cuts himself off. She hears him sigh. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters, and crawls out.

She hears him crossing back to the entrance, and the door clicking shut. And then just listens to her own breath.

It's not fair, she knows. Tony is a good man, now, and yet…

And yet she can still remember — even here, surrounded by frost and snow and cold and ice — the heat of the explosion. Pietro tugging her down under the creaky old, wooden skeleton of the bed, banging her head on the frame in their haste, squeezing her eyes shut and clutching Pietro's shirt - knowing, less than two metres away is a hole and their parents are at the bottom of it, dead. Around them, the building crumbling into itself.

And then _another,_ landing three feet away from them with the clink of wood against metal.

“ _And on the side of the shell -_ ” she can hear Pietro telling Ultron, “ _-is one word_.”

_Stark._

“ _We wait two days for Tony Stark to kill us_.”

It doesn't matter, thinks Wanda. It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything. Besides, how can she condemn Tony Stark for anything when she condemned their whole country once and for all? At least, when it was him, there were parts left which could cry.

But then, Stark created Ultron _._

 _A combined effort, then_ , she decides dully.

Tony Stark comes back a few minutes later; she hears him trudging through the thick snow, right up to the shelter and clearing his throat. Wanda wants to scream.

“What,” she says flatly. Can't he just leave her _alone_?

“Um,” Tony begins, “I —” she hears him sigh again and take another deep breath, and she waits. The snow is still getting heavier, coming down faster. “I don't know if you wanna come in, but it's cold. I… I made us coffee, if you want? Cappuccinos - I've been told I make good ones." 

She doesn't say anything for a while, let's him just wait there, outside the shelter in the cold, feeling a nasty sense of satisfaction at his clear discomfort. It's petty, of course, very spiteful, but she can't help it — even if she knows he means well. 

“We don't have to talk, if you don't want to, obviously,” he adds, trailing off, and then coughs awkwardly. 

Perhaps he deserves it. What small a price to pay is a little frost, after all… after all he has done, and made and _taken._

Wanda forces herself to breathe.

Squeezes her eyes shut.

“All right,” she breathes, and drags herself out into the open, and the full force of the wind hits her. She dusts herself off, as though she is not soaked to the bone anyway.

“All right,” Tony echoes, as though he didn't expect to get this far.

Wanda doesn't say anything else as she follows him inside, nor does she in the elevator down to the kitchen. Tony doesn't either, for that matter. Instead, JARVIS fills the silence for them, telling them Sam has left message about his family inviting Steve and him to come home for the rest of Christmas after the service. Hopefully, they’re having a good time.

When they arrive at the kitchen, Wanda can smell the coffee already. Admittedly, it does smell good, but it's hard to make coffee smell bad, especially when it's so expensive like Stark's is. Tony Stark brings out two mugs from under what Wanda assumes to be a heated lamp and struggles not to roll her eyes at how unnecessary this all is.

Looking out through the glass now, it's different. It's still snowing, of course, like when she looked out this morning; but with the black background of the sky, and under the neon glow of billboard signs and flashing lights and the streetlights, it seems almost eerie. New York is no less vivid during the night, no less alive — if anything it's all augmented at night, made brighter, louder, in a frenzied sort of way which makes Wanda want to recoil.

“Thank you,” Wanda mutters quietly, as he hands her a mug.

“It’s nothing.”

Apparently, Stark (or maybe one of his many gadgets?) has some kind of barista training, because there's an actual design in the foam of the milk. And it really is made well, light and frothy and bitter and just the right temperature burning down her throat. For some reason, Wanda feels a sense of annoyance at that, Stark doing something so frivolous with his time like perfecting the art of cappuccino making. How can he? Not when others…

She stops herself. So what?

Natasha is currently on her way back from dropping off Clint with his family; Steve is with Sam to see _his_ family; Wanda was only on the roof moments ago, essentially just messing around in the snow.

She swallows. Takes her eyes off the city outside. Stares down onto the design in the mug distorting in the milk.

She feels so tired.

“This was how Pietro liked to drink his coffee, before,” she says, finally. “Obviously he could never get it very often; but sometimes, on occasions, rare days, like today, he’d allow himself one as a treat. We bought one each before Strucker’s men picked us up for — well, this — “ and she gestures at herself, letting the words spill out without thinking. “We were _celebrating_.”

And she hears a hollow, brittle laugh from her throat. 

Tony doesn't say anything, just looks up to show he's listening, but doesn't quite meet her eyes.

Wanda presses her lips together, eyes darting back to look outside. Watches as the wind changes direction suddenly, randomly, and the white flakes of snow whirl in flurries, crashing into each other.

“Hey, did you know, Stark,” and her voice is surprisingly steady when she says it and somehow that makes it _worse. “_ Did you know, today's _our_ _birthday_?” she says. “Today's our birthday, and not _once_ today have I cried.”

She doesn't want to look at Stark so she keeps staring out the window, but the windows are clean and it's dark out and somehow her eyes cannot focus on the snow falling anymore, but instead catches on the reflection of herself and Tony Stark sitting in the kitchen of Avengers Tower and drinking cappuccinos.

She quickly closes her eyes. Smiles wryly.

“Does that make me a terrible person?”

It's silent, for a while, or at least as quiet as it can be with the wind blowing loudly outside the glass, and the rest of the New York sound.

She hears Tony sigh, and then — “I don't think that makes you a terrible person, Maximoff. Look,” he pauses, and she sneaks a glance at his reflection. His mug is on the counter, and he's sitting on one of the bar stools, leaning back against the marble surface, and rubbing his eyes. He grimaces. “Maybe I'm not the — actually, scratch that — I'm definitely not the right person to talk about this, but, I think… just because you're not crying doesn't mean you're not sad. Just because you can still get out of bed and build a damn igloo, doesn't mean you don't mourn, that you don't _miss him._ You don't just become a bad person because you didn't cry, Wanda.”

 _How can I not be a bad person?_ She wants to say. _How can I not be a bad person when I'm sitting drinking coffee with the man who killed my parents and destroyed my home? How can I not be a bad person when my brother is dead and it's his birthday and I can't even cry and I'm sitting here drinking coffee with you, Tony Stark?_

But she doesn’t. She can't.

It's cruel, she knows it, to repeat crimes to a man who already knows what he's done and is trying to make amends. She already knows Tony Stark certainly doesn't see himself as a good man.

After a second he stands, picks up his mug, and walks over to stand beside her by the window. He hesitates. “Can I... Can I hug you?”

He holds his breath and she tenses, the hot drink in her hand suddenly feels cold against her skin, and she freezes, rigid. 

“Don't,” she bites out. Forces herself to swallow some air. Clenches her other hand tightly and the nails dig into her palms. “No, no thank you.”

She's not quite sure what to expect, but all Tony Stark does is shrug his shoulders once and sip his coffee, and she forces herself to do the same.

She stares out the window, and tries to focus on the snow, and the terrible two-toned wail of an ambulance cutting through the snow, the obnoxious drunken laughter of people all the way down on the streets, the flickering neon glow. She feels the heat of the mug, warming her fingers, and her fluffy socks wet from the snow.

But for some reason, all she can think about is that winter, from back then. Strucker had never let the two of them outside, had never even let them look. They never knew the date, didn't know one hour from the next. But then, one day… one day Strucker slipped up. They were moving sites again, after either one of HYDRA's enemies (Wanda had heard whispers of _Captain America_ , and Pietro heard about _the Black Widow_ and the _Asset)_ had attacked again, or they’d had intel that they would. It hadn't even been half a minute, just nine steps from one truck to another, the bag placed over their heads instead of knocking them out. Careless.

Nine, maybe nine and a half, Wanda had looked down and seen the soft powdery blanket, mostly white but a little muddy from other footsteps; and had felt an icy breeze, and her fingers got cold from her hands held behind her back, metal cuffs digging into her wrists — and they were cold too. Nine steps (and perhaps a half) of hands gripping her shoulders and pushing her forward, stumbling through the snow.

Neither of them knew where they were, so it might have been the middle of summer in Greenland, but Pietro had seen her the next day (or the next time they'd woken up, in another glass cell) and had mouthed, simply, _happy birthday._

And she’d said happy birthday back.

Which one it could have been, they didn't know, but it hadn’t mattered. There'd been snow, and the cold and it had been just so _nice_ to pretend it was the 23rd of December, and that it was their birthday. 

Eventually, JARVIS announces to them that Natasha has returned and Wanda senses her presence. She finishes the rest of the cappucino. Tony Stark turns to her and raises one eyebrow cautiously.

“Cheers?” he says, and clinks their empty mugs together.

She allows him to take her mug over to the sink to wash up, picks her boots up off the floor and heads to the elevator.

* * *

 

Natasha texts her at around quarter to eight. It's stopped snowing again.

Wanda is on the balcony of her unit, which has long been snowed in by now, leaning just a little over the glass barrier, looking over the streets below, and feeling the cold breeze numb her cheeks. The phone buzzes in the deep pockets of her thin robe, and her stiff fingers find it without thinking.

 **[19:45]** _Let's take a walk. Meet meet me in 15? Ground floor._

It's a very simple message, really, but Wanda just stares at it for a moment, looking at all the letters but not quite able to read them. She gets like that, sometimes. It's quite frustrating but even as a child, sometimes she just couldn't focus on the words on the page enough to read them. It wasn't even always the reading; but at school, in lessons, there’d be times during the day where she just couldn’t process what she was listening to. She'd understand each word individually, but she could never string them together.

Right now, though, she's shivering all over, so she allows that to be her excuse.

Out loud, against the groans of the wind, Wanda reads over the text several times, her voice a little cracked from the cold. A few times, she pauses on a word for too long, or can't her one of them over the buffeting wind, so she has to start again.

It doesn't help that, every time Wanda is leaning over an edge, holding something, she gets the inexplicable desire to drop it. Right now, she can hardly feel her fingers as they grip her phone, hands slightly over the edge. It's snowing, though, so perhaps if she drops it this time it might be forgivable (though inconvenient.) It probably won't break if it lands in the snow.

 **[19:48]** _ok_

Wanda's nails are too long. They make typing so much harder, now even more so in the cold, where the pads of her fingers can’t really feel the screen as she taps. She should cut them, but long nails make her feel more vicious, somehow. It's hard to explain. The phone the Avengers have given her is certainly the most expensive one she's ever owned, even if she basically got it for free, and the touchscreen is cool and much more multifunctional than the old flip phones they had before everything.

For a second, all Wanda wants to do is chuck it. Throw it hard until maybe it reaches one of those many big glass windows of all these ugly buildings and smashes through. It would feel so good, she imagines.

Closing her eyes, she takes one more breath of the icy air, before she goes inside to change, her hair tangling with the current of stormy wind.

The door shuts behind her; and it's sudden, the lack of noise and the stillness that come with it, all the sounds and the movement left behind on the street.

Inside, the lights are switched off so it's dark, mainly, other than the ever present neon, psychedelic glitz which stays in the New York background, leaning in through the window. There is a bed, a chest of drawers, a walk-in closer, the door out to her kitchen and _living area._ All of it a bit hollow, really.

Wanda gets dressed in the dark, pulling on a thick pair of jeans and a woollen sweater. Grabs her same puffy jacket from before. Laces up her boots. Doesn't bother to lock the door to her quarters as she leaves because JARVIS will probably just do it anyway.

“Hey,” says Natasha, greeting her as the metal doors slide open. Wanda steps out. “Red and orange, huh?” she comments, eyes giving Wanda an obvious once over. “It's clashy. I like it.”

Wanda shrugs. Glances down. She's wearing her usual pair of dark wine-red jeans, and the slightly itchy sweater she's wearing is a violent highlighter-orange.

“Where are we going?” she asks, zipping up her coat.

“Out,” replies Natasha. Natasha fusses a little with her, wordlessly handing her a pair of gloves which aren't snow-soaked, and a red knitted hat with a silly looking pom-pom at the top, before she leads them outside. Natasha herself looks seamlessly put together as always, in all black except the pop of red from her beret.

The streets are a little emptied than expected, it being Christmas Eve-eve and all, and the snow is still coming down hard. They don't take a car or a cab or any sort of transportation to wherever Natasha is leading them. Instead, they just walk.

At night, the snow doesn't look white. Not even that greyish-yellow-off-colour of white. Instead it's tinged with oranges and reds and blues, bouncing back light from the lights above. Wanda can hardly see the lights themselves, though, the dense fall of snow obscuring her vision. Any tracks they make in the snow are quickly blown over.

There are buildings on all sides of her. Glass and grey metal and that too-bright glow. And an over her, the snow and the pitch-black of the above.

Everything about New York at night feels more lonely, even when she's got Natasha with her. Natasha isn't _really_ the one she wants to be walking with right now, after all. It's like this: you can hear your own breath, even as the wind tries to muffle it, and you can hear everything for miles. You'll year somebody somewhere, miles away, laugh — maybe at a joke, or their just drunk, or _anything really_ — and a few streets away you might hear the sultry blues of a jazz band. And then Wanda just starts to feel alone.

Sounds just bounce off the buildings and echo right into your ears, wherever you are in this city. That's the problem.

Natasha stops them outside a pub or bar which seems no different to any other she's seen here. The same neon-red ‘OPEN’ sign, and dark tinted windows and everything.

Wanda does not move when Natasha opens the door and tilts her head to motion at her to enter.

“Come on,” she says, “We're letting the cold in." 

“What are we doing here?” Wanda asks instead. She doesn't move. It's still snowing. 

“Grabbing a drink,” Natasha replies.

“I don't celebrate Christmas,”says Wanda automatically.

“I know. It's not for Christmas.”

“I don't want to celebrate.”

Natasha has a soft look about her eyes, sympathetic, kind. Wanda doesn't want it. _That's_ not what she wants. For some reason, Wanda feels the inexplicable urge to just spit right in her face. _Spit_ and scream and tell at the _Black Widow_ and tear her hair out and pull her finger nails off, and scratch away her skin.

To be fair, it probably wouldn't faze her. She _is_ the Black Widow, after all.

Natasha is on her side now, though. Her teammate, her _friend_. And Wanda feels sick at herself for even thinking it.

“We don't have to celebrate,” says Natasha gently, and tugs her inside.

Inside it's warm and loud, and the lighting inside is a bright yellow, and there's the smell of spilled alcohol. It's one of those bar/pubs that look a little aged; the tables and counters all a gloss-finished walnut, and dark green upholstered stools, and booth-benches, and a mixture of ornate gold and black frames with signed _Beatles_ signatures, or _Ziggy Stardust_ , or _Queen_ , and some others she doesn’t recognise (but she’s Sokovian, not a damn martian.)There's a TV screen on the top corner on the farthest wall of the room, American football playing on the screen.

They find two seats by the bar Wanda allows her companion to order for her something called a _Kahlua cocktail_ , and for Natasha herself, the _Espresso martini._

For a little while, they sit there, just waiting for their drinks. Wanda wonders if Natasha comes here regularly, or something, because nobody seems to be paying much attention to the fact that one and a half Avengers just walked into the bar. And, she knows Natasha is a spy but she’s not _that_ good — or well, she _is_ but a red beret is hardly any sort of disguise, anyhow. Not when she’s taken it off. The football game isn't _that_ interesting.

Wanda's not really tasting her drink as the frothy-cool liquid touches her tongue and flows down her throat. Her mouth just feels bland and dry but she just tips the drink back steadily, watching the glass drain. She just wants to get this over with. In a couple of hours, it will be the next day anyway.

Natasha sips her drink slowly, with patience, watching her. 

“What?” Wanda says shortly, challenging almost. “I _said_ I don't want to celebrate.”

Natasha shrugs. “I know,” she says finally, and takes another sip of her bitter scented martini. “But you needed to go out. You shouldn't confine yourself to the Tower — at least not today.”

Privately, Wanda thinks Natasha doesn't really get much say about what's good for her. Not today.

But she's sure she means well.

She doesn't say anything, though. Natasha can probably tell how she feels, after all, she's almost as good at reading people as Wanda. 

There are little scratches engraved into the wood of the counter. Small, and smoothed over a little with worn age. Wanda traces her fingers over them, not looking up. There's a slightly wonky love heart, and a few initials, a smiley face. Little grooves on the warm tones of the surface, made perhaps, by anxious fingernails or little copper pennies whittling away at their boredom.

Natasha doesn't say anything, still. Just sits there sipping. Waiting.

Wanda sighs. “I don't know how to do this,” she admits, finally.

“Do what?” says Natasha, even though she knows full well.

“This,” she says again. It is so difficult to get out what she means, for some reason. Her tongue struggles. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. It is my birthday, I am supposed to be happy — but it was supposed to be _our_ birthday. How can I possibly have it without him? You cannot understand…”

The other woman pushes her drink towards her, and Wanda takes it and sips lightly and takes a breath.

“I won't say it's okay,” begins Natasha, looking at her carefully. “But you don't have to be feeling happy. There's no feeling that you're _supposed to_ be feeling.” She sighs, clasps her hands together. “I know I can't possibly understand but you know you can talk to me, right?”

Wanda nods. Yeah, she knows. Doesn't mean it's not hard though.

The Espresso martini is a little stronger than Wanda's own drink, in both toasty bitterness and alcohol, but not so different really. Wanda sets it down on the counter again and slides it back to her friend. Natasha takes it with a small, rare smile.

She wonders if Pietro would have liked it. 

There was one birthday, she remembers, their fourteenth, their friend Lörna had convinced them to try and sneak into a nightclub and buy alcohol and everything. She’d borrowed some ID from their friends in the older years and had given Wanda and herself a full face of make-up, Pietro had always been pretty tall, anyway. Passable.

The snow hadn’t fallen as heavy as it did most years, it was more a slushy sort of wet than anything else. But there was still a crisp layer of frost over everything. The dewy night air felt more like breathing in particles of ice. Her and Lörna had been shivering in their short little dresses and high heels, even with their winter coats, legs exposed to the cold still. Pietro had laughed at them, breath steaming up into the air, and Wanda had hit him hard with her red purse in return.

Once they arrived at the entrance of the nightclub, they discovered the bouncer was surprisingly lax with everything. He hadn't even bothered with much of a glance towards their ID. Lörna had linked her arms with the both of them, and marched them right on in merrily. Inside was all bright dancing lights, and loud pulsing beats and wild, jumping, chaotic clusters of people.it was incredible.

They hadn't stayed long, of course, the whole thing being too much for three only barely fourteen year olds, snuck away from the orphanage for a night. But they'd all had a shot each, and still had a pretty disgusting tasting beer to share between them, sitting on the bench outside in the silly dusting of snow, and Pietro had been bright read from the neck up and they'd all laughed and laughed and laughed.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! " 

The sudden burst of song jolts Wanda back. It's not at all tuneful, but it's merry and boisterous almost, and full of warmth. She turns around in her seat to look.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO _MA—RY_ ! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO _YOUUU_!” 

There's a medium sized gathering of people, maybe about ten to twelve, a family, all crowding around one of the booths in the corner other tables and chairs pushed together to form one big one. A large, overly rich looking chocolate cake sits in the middle, candles shaped the number 67 lit on top. The rest of the room clap enthusiastically as the family cheers.

Wanda doesn't even realise she's standing until she sees Natasha smiling up at her.

“Come on,” says Natasha, calling her back down to her seat. She waves the bartender over.

“See the table celebrating over there?” she begins, including her head towards them. The bartender nods along. “Ask what drinks they want, anything, and I'll buy them the next round.”

Both of them watch as he slips away and towards the table, approaching a woman with slightly greying hair and dark brown skin, who Wanda assumes to be the birthday-girl, Mary, and gestures towards them. Natasha flashes another, red-lipped smile. Next to Mary is an empty seat.

It's not as though Wanda forgets it's not just _their_ birthday, millions of others share it with them, but it feels strange that other people should still be celebrating even so. But… it's comforting, in a weird sort of way. It makes her feel lighter, somehow, to watch this family, children chattering excitedly to one another, a few teenagers looking after them and checking their phones every once in a while, parents laughing and keeping an eye over their glasses of wine.

So many people, not just here but all over the world, are probably celebrating a birthday. Something as simple and complex as a child being born.

Even though it's not really the same, it makes her feel a little less guilty somehow. Like it doesn't matter that she still doesn't feel like celebrating (it'll be the end of the day in a few hours, anyway), she doesn't have to. There are others which can celebrate for them, even if it's indirectly — Pietro always did enjoy a bit of a party.

They're a considerate family, it seems. None of them pick out any very expensive drinks, there’s a few glasses of orange juice for the children probably, and they beam at them from across the room.

“My!” says a voice, “The Black Widow and…” she trails off.

“Wanda Maximoff,” replies Wanda at the same time Natasha says “Scarlet Witch.” Wanda tries not to laugh. She's still not used to that.

“Well,” continues the woman, “I just came over to thank you for the drinks. That was so lovely of you.”

“I'm guessing you're Mary, the birthday girl?” says Natasha.

“That's right,” and she — Mary — gives a little chuckle. “We've got three generations here. It’s a bit of a tradition, coming here, I suppose.”

“That sounds nice,” says Wanda.

“Yeah, it is.” Mary pauses thoughtfully, taking a sip of the glass of rosé in her hand. “Actually, I hope you don't mind my prying but — what are you two doing here? There's no evil-villain business happening here, is there?”

“Actually,” Natasha responds, glancing briefly at Wanda before she can open her mouth, “It's Wanda's birthday today too.”

“Oh wow. What a coincidence, huh?” grins Mary. Her eyes flit back to her table for a moment and she takes another sip. “Would you,” Mary smiles and then more confidently, she tries again. “Would you maybe like to come join us for some cake? And I know the kids would love to meet you. Both of you.” she adds.

Natasha looks at her, face neutral and surprisingly gentle, a careful lack of judgement. Because it's Wanda's choice, of course.

“I…” begins Wanda.

“It’s okay. We wouldn't want to be a hassle,” says Natasha.

“Oh, you wouldn't be a hassle. Of course, if you're busy yourselves that's different. But my daughter bakes the most delicious cakes.”

Well. “Of course,” Wanda says. She takes a breath. Looks at where Mary was sitting before and the other empty seat beside it. “Then we would love to.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this and love Wanda as much as I do please leave a comment and kudos! Thank you <3 <3 <3
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAXIMOFF TWINS.
> 
> P.s- if anyone was wondering the empty seat next to Mary is because she too has lost a twin.


End file.
